Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

  “Of course. Yes. I’d read that.” And I had. She was to be the star of several shows there this year.

  “In the mean time, we’ll hang here at the castle where we’re safe and make plans to end all this…well…the parts we can at least…in Paris.”

  “How are we safe with all those darker-than-death, mystery sedans cruising the front of the castle grounds?”

  “I think R and I have taken care of those for now.”

  “For now?! What the hell does that mean?”

  “If things go right in Paris, we won’t need to worry about the sedans anymore.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. We’ve got enough on our plate this time.”

  I’d agree with my prince on that one.

  Speaking of having a full plate, I did need to know where I stood with Camilla de Vil.

  “So about Camilla? Does she happen to know she got shot with a tranquilizer dart?”

  Roman made some brush-off gesture with his hand. Easy for him to brush her off, he hadn’t been the one who thought she’d knocked her off.

  “No. No. No worries. She thinks she just passed out after seeing the perfect Armani dress for her Oscar Red Carpets.”

  Well that was a relief.

  Who’d have thought that last week, I was worried about what my clients would be wearing on Red Carpets, while this week, I was damn near responsible for burying ‘em under them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I guess, after spending almost two weeks in these mighty fine digs, I could get used to living life in a castle. And it sure as hell beat running from the mob.

  For an instant—well two weeks of instants anyway—I’d surrendered to being held captive, but safe, by my prince.

  And why not?

  The other alternatives I had were (1) namely, going after said mob by myself, or (2)…well, really I had no number two, because I sure as hell wasn’t about to go after the Russian mob alone.

  Plus, whatever Roman and R had up their sleeves for the final leg of our Cozy Cash Operation, required we hang here, close to R’s labs.

  In addition, Roman’s grandmother Veruschka was some kind of key to our Paris Plan too, and she needed time to get here and learn her part in bringing down McCall once and for all to restore a good hunk of the family’s wealth.

  So I suppose it could be said that I was not alone.

  I did have The Mom Squad and my BFFs to keep me company, and they were more than up to the challenge of also going after a few killer thugs.

  I also had Ross, who really had just gone down the tubes completely since arriving in Europe. To be fair and completely accurate, the trouble I’d had with him in The States, was nothing like the distractions he seemed to be handing me right and left now.

  As soon as we got back to L.A., he was toast. But for now, I had The Mom Squad keeping a close eye on him, being as they seemed to enjoy him more than I did.

  Honestly, I’d never seen a guy with more lame ass excuses than Ross had conjured up lately. Every time I’d asked him to do something these past two weeks, he’d rattle off an excuse, damn near incoherent that would delay him from completing my assigned tasks.

  Right now, he couldn’t even keep track of Camilla, who to my dismay, at the same time my ultimate relief, had decided she’d rather hang with The Mom Squad too.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” I heard Alexandra’s sweet voice before I saw her peek her chic, blond-bobbed head around the gigantic and ancient door to my private office.

  Boy, would I hate to see this new little sanctuary of mine gone when my reign as the temporary queen of the castle ended tomorrow.

  “Of course not, Alex. Come in. Sit with me. I could use the company,” I said, lifting off the couch some of Veruschka’s vintage design books I’d discovered in the castle’s library, and had been busy devouring.

  “Fabulous books,” Alex said, a complete clothes’ horse just like me, probably the reason she’d always been one of my favorite clients.

  ‘Course that all changed, just like the rest of my life, once her father had been brought down by Roman and Company.

  “They are indeed,” I said, smiling down at the book on Coco Chanel I’d just finished.

  “So have you learned anymore more about our Paris Plan?” Alex asked, an expression on her face, I’d grown to recognize in the months that had passed between us since her father’s imprisonment.

  “Not much. But I take it, you have?”

  “Perhaps. I do have a few things to run by you, and a couple items I think you need to let Roman know, but I don’t want him knowing they came from me. I’ve got my family to protect too.”

  I nodded, knowing all-too-well the very public stress and safety concerns Alexandra had had to bear to protect her husband Damian as well as their twin sons Wyatt and Tate, who we all loved to call Tater. I couldn’t imagine going through what she and Damian had.

  Hell, I was freaking out, and I had a Bond Team at my disposal every second now. She and Damian had given that up to try and make a normal life for their family. As normal as being the daughter and family of Bernie McCall could be.

  “Shoot,” I said, my face quickly heating up realizing that wasn’t the best word choice given our situation. “Yeah. Sorry. Not the best choice of words, huh?”

  Alex laughed, and although it was a small laugh compared to her normally hearty and spirited giggle, it was great to hear humor amidst our mafia-crazed doom and gloom.

  “I’ve been trying to piece all this together, based on the bits and pieces I’ve learned about my father’s dealings,” Alex said, pressing then re-pressing the knees of her slacks with her short hands, like she often did when she was nervous or upset about anything having to do with her father’s schemes.

  “His European connection was Sonja, and that was it. To my knowledge, every deal he’s ever done here has been brokered by her and the money then exchanged through her slimy hands.”

  “Sounds right, based on Roman and I’s investigation too,” I concurred, always admiring how Alex could whittle down information into new concepts and theories, a skill that had served her well and continued to do so in her online advertising company.

  “Sonja’s plans had to include killing the Kohns before they in fact killed her,” Alex continued before she got up off the fancy velour couch and began pacing off my office.

  “I guess I took care of that for her. Well me, and whoever off-ed Ludwig back in Music City.”

  “Exactly. So, one, I don’t think Sonja will come after you or Roman next. In fact, she owes you, for getting the Kohns off her back. But even more than that, I don’t think it was the Kohns that were her biggest problems.”

  “Who would be more of a threat to her than the Russian mob she’d pilfered from?” I asked, totally clueless as to where Alex was heading with this, but more than intrigued to find out.

  “Well…the way I got it figured is that Larry and Lowell were out just to avenge Ludwig’s death. Those three stooges were truly three peas in quite strange pods, and frankly, which I’m sure you noticed, weren’t smart enough to do much of anything.”

  “True,” I said, almost laughing out loud that I’d been made to scale a skyscraper to avoid their wrath, although, little Larry was quite good with guns. Too bad for him and his brothers, they fired blanks between their ears.

  “Now Lucinda, on the other hand, was damn smart. She hated her brothers and sought to do whatever she had to do, to once and for all, have the family under her control.”

  “So what…she wanted to be some kinda female mob boss? Is that even allowed?”

  “I suppose. If there’s no one left to stand in your way, right?”

  “Good point.”

  “Lucinda, needed you alive, just like Sonja does, to follow the money trail. Lucinda wanted her family’s money back, and Sonja needs to know who all has the money so she can then control who knows what.”

  “Oka
y…but how does that lead us to who our real killer is and how does that protect us all in Paris?” I asked, totally getting everything Alex was saying, but still unable to decipher what, taken together, all this meant.

  “Think about it this way,” Alex said, stopping her pacing over the immense fortune of Persian Rugs at our feet then giving me an intense look I couldn’t have cowered from even if I’d wanted to because of the heartfelt sincerity and fear in her eyes.

  “We know who wants to follow the cash and see where it leads. But ask yourself…Who stands to lose the most if said cash were to be found?”

  I shook my head, still a bit lost.

  “The only person I can think of would be your father. But he’s in prison. So that rules him out.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Alex said, her fingers trembling even though she was trying to hide her angst by rubbing them together.

  “Remember how my father still managed to send me packages with many of his valuables, right to my doorstep, despite Roman and his monkeys being there? Remember what I’ve told you about my brothers’ wives telling me about phone calls my brothers had been taking in which they thought for sure had to have come from Bernie somehow because of the types of information they know had about various assets belonging to my father?”

  I ran my now trembling fingers over my forehead.

  “That’s right! I’d totally not put all that together. Well done, Alex. You should try out this P.I. gig too!”

  Finally, Alex did laugh. Her old, all-out, full-throttle giggle.

  “You’re a hoot, Zoey. Thanks. That laugh felt good.”

  I hugged her, knowing how very much she needed one. I had a feeling she came all this way just to personally tell me this, probably because she was too afraid to tell me by phone or email.

  “It felt good to hear you be able to laugh at this again.”

  “I was laughing at you, Witherspoon,” she said, doing her best to imitate how Roman said my name when he was starting to get irked with me.

  But this time, I was growing more and more irked with him, and all his continued secrecy as to the details of our Cozy Cash Operations.

  If I learned that he’d known all about the possibility that McCall was the one truly running the entire mob trying to take us out, and was simply using us as bait to bring Sonja out of hiding in Paris, I was gonna be some kinda pissed off.

  And my prince was gonna pay for it big-time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  One of this year’s Spring Fashion Week show’s I was dying to see was the one created by and showcasing the collection of Paris’ Prince of Light.

  No, not my fake boyfriend The Prince, but rather, the famed designer known as the Prince of Light Rick Owens, whose Goth-tinged designs were just to die for.

  Owens specializes in cotton gowns with floor-sweeping hemlines, sparse capes and cutaway jackets in rigid silk, with these amazing hoods and jutting collars. But my personal fave, were these hornlike hair combs he used to give an otherworldly effect to his collection.

  And don’t fool yourself into thinking these hair combs from Mars were simply a fashion statement, ‘cause thanks to our R, they were my latest Cozy Cash weapons of choice.

  Wait ‘til you see what I can do with these dolls.

  I turned slowly in front of the dressing mirror in my prince’s Italian castle, kind of sad, because this one show was all I was getting in Paris.

  Due to our current security concerns, Roman and R were only allowing us to fly-in to Paris today for the Owen show and a few of the galas this evening, with our plane on stand-by to taxi-out as soon as possible.

  My deadly hair combs, which really looked more like boat oars or some kind of weird paddles, towered over my head and hair, the latter of which I’d had Ross slick back then tied into a well-gelled, and ultra-sleek knot.

  Coupled with my alien, straight-outta-Avatar makeup, I looked as if, at least from the neck up, I belonged on one of Owens rolling fog machine runways.

  I’d chosen one of his dark emerald green, rigid silk dresses, in some very bizarre cut, sort of looking as if I were wearing a Martian garbage bag…maybe something, that if, let’s see…what if Oscar the Grouch had a Martian wife…yeah, she’d adore this look. Kind of a grouchy green toughened-up, edgy silk garbage can. With hornlike boat paddles sticking outta her head instead of the normal metal trashcan lid.

  “Damn, Witherspoon,” Roman said, still unable to drink from his espresso cup while looking at me at the same time. “I know you and my grandmother think Owen’s stuff is the ‘it’ of French couture, but really, it’s just scary looking.”

  “Well, considering our plan, don’t you think it’s smart to look a bit scary?” I challenged him, though, if I weren’t so on edge about today’s plan, I might just agree with him.

  Owen’s shift from his dark-side heavy designs to what he thought were steps into the light, for me, only looked as if he were stepping into the light cast by some E.T.-esque or Close Encounters spaceship.

  “Scary. I get. But you might just make our suspects die of laughter, not fear.”

  “Whatever. You stick to the Bond crap. And I’ll handle the fashion end of our operations.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Good. Glad we got that settled.” I gave the highest hair paddle a quick tilt to the left to balance out its offset of one of the jutting collars of my dress, then left my mirror to face my personal prince and God only knew who and what else this day had in store.

  Following Roman and R to the castle’s tarmac—yeah, doesn’t every castle come complete with its own airport—and the private Gulfstream that would shuttle us to Paris, I thought of the irony of my being involved with two dark princes in the same day.

  Owens was often called the “dark prince” for his daring, Goth-edged designs. While, my Prince Roman of Many Names, had a dark side I was convinced he still hadn’t revealed to me.

  But stepping into the plane’s plush cabin, and getting a wink from Grandma Veruschka, I figured someday, very soon, I’d be privy to more of Roman’s darkness. That is, if I could stand the heat to get there.

  And today, it was all about the heat I was packin’ in my hair paddles. Screw the Glocks.

  Who needed a gun when you had means to kill tucked into your hair buns?

  And speaking of means to kill, now that I had another one, I’d love to practice before the big event.

  I glanced at Ross before taking my seat next to Roman.

  Funny, how suddenly, today, for the actual Paris part of our operation, Ross seemed most eager to please me, and now wouldn’t leave my side unless I actually told him to get lost. He could use a good paddlin’.

  Three hours later, seated at Owens bunker-like headquarters at the Place du Palais Bourbon, surrounded by our entire posse, all dressed in Owens’ big, cartwheel skirts, except for Ross, Roman and R who each looked beyond dapper in their Armani suits, we were ready for our last part of European Fashion Week’s Cozy Cash Operations.

  I was exhausted. My sugar was low. I hadn’t an ounce of Naked Juice in site, although knowing Roman and R, they could probably produce a glass if I as much wished upon a star. My fear factor level was on overdrive, and my nerves shot to hell to match it, and I was now facing our latest enemy Sonja Medici who dared seat her should-be-in-hiding, Ponzi-scheming-ass, right across the runway from us.

  Which reminded me. It was terribly odd, that exactly who we were looking for and/or whoever was hunting us down too had cleverly ended-up seated directly opposite us at each show.

  First in London with Larry and Lowell. Then in Milan with Lucinda, and unfortunately fortunately, the jury was still out on that one, Camilla de Vil too. And now, here in Paris, right before us, sat Sonja Medici.

  I was a Stylist to The Stars. I knew how coveted and damn difficult it was to secure seats like these. Okay. And yes, I now knew I was on the arm of an Italian Prince. But still. How did all our thugs get their seats?

  And
something else was also bothering me.

  I just realized, after watching Ross strain his neck, and adjust his lavender tie, something was more than off with him too.

  He never fidgeted in public. But beyond that, he never showed me to my seats at each show. I showed him.

  He was only sitting where he was because he was my assistant, and I’d been given the posh, important seats.

  But not this year in Europe. He’d shown me to our seats…every show.

  I looked from Ross to Roman, who I swore had also been keeping a close eye on Ross today too, even taking a moment as we were hustled from the plane’s staircase to the waiting limousines to speak to him.

  Roman never talked to Ross. In fact, usually my just mentioning him, sort of made Roman change whatever subject we’d been discussing.

  Maybe Ross wasn’t really Ross either.

  No one else seemed to be who they said they were.

  Before I could hone-in on that little concern any more, the fog machines rolled and the show began.

  Despite being very excited about seeing Owens’ show, I actually hardly saw any of the designs, as I was supposed to be keeping my eyes on Sonja, and that I did.

  Something about the woman made my skin crawl. But the weird part was I wasn’t scared of her. I was worried about whoever it was that was pulling her puppet-like strings. And while she sat there, in her Owens’ designed dress, the silk poplins of her dress inspired by the functional and very well-restrained fabrics of prison uniform ilk, I couldn’t help but wonder if my friend Alex was right.

  What if Sonja’s puppeteer was Alex’s father? Bernie McCall himself.

  Could he be wearing the real prison uniforms and still be controlling Fashion Week crowds across the pond from his prison cell?

  And if so, how was he pulling it off?

  Guess we were about to find out…

  Americans had always been known to make big social splashes in Paris during Fashion Week, and had all the high-glamour and glitz bashes to prove it.